Seattle 60, or Graveyard

I've hit the balance: four cups of coffee, but none after 4am. I can't have the jitters at 7, when the shift is over, gotta go home, gotta sleep, gotta make the day seem at least a little normal. The big night job is laundry - about a dozen loads per night, except on weekends - then it's more like twenty. Having the structure helps - gotta get up, gotta walk, fold, arrange the kids' clothes into neat piles for them to claim in the morning.

Sometime after 2, my brain shuts down, and I can't comprehend much beyond a fourth grade reading level, which is convenient, because the hardest books on the shelves are about that difficult. Some adults harbor a secret love for picture books, but I'm a Young Adult Fiction girl, all the way. I work through a stack of eight or nine a night, sometimes more. I've re-read every Beverly Cleary book - she's just about the right speed. Andrew Clements is excellent, too. (Which reminds me, Dear Abby, Andrew Clements books on tape are perfect for your new commute - particularly "School Story." You'll like that one.) So are the Boxcar Children, the Babysitters Club, books by Karen Hesse, Jerry Spinelli and Madeline L'Engle. New-to-me authors include Mary Jane Auchs (Journey to Nowhere), Andrea Davis Pinkney (Silent Thunder). I forgot how much I love historical fiction. I'm revisiting the magic of my childhood, the first snippets of freedom I ever understood.

Bed-checks are every twenty minutes or so, but at random intervals. Some kids sleep curled up so small I have to walk into the room to make sure they're actually there. Some snore. Some wake every time, no matter how quietly I open the door. "Just checking," I whisper. "Goodnight, kiddo."

4-5am is the longest, darkest hour. The birds kick in around a quarter to five, and the sky begins to lighten around five. From five to seven, I can't even read. I finish the laundry, wipe down the counters, pace, sit, play with string. Sometimes, I have waking dreams. This morning, a kid woke up with a nightmare just as I was about to start hopping up and down on one foot to stay awake. I made her a cup of tea, thick with honey, sang her lullabies about trains - Hobo's Lullaby, Morningtown Ride, City of New Orleans. I walked her through some grounding exercises; we said together, "I am at Ryther. I am safe. These are my safe walls, my safe bed, my safe clothes and stuffed animals and safe blankets. There are staff to make sure I am safe. Nobody can hurt me right now. It's safe to go back to sleep." The word "safe" began to sound funny in my mouth, the way any word does after a lot of repetition. I sat outside her door, let her keep the lights on, the door cracked just enough for her to see my foot propped against the doorjamb. She was asleep by the time I left.

My vision blurs on the bike ride home, yawns cracking my jaw. It's getting cold - probably in the low 50s. My sweatshirt feels good on the ride. Commuters pass me in the bike lane, headed towards the university. I get home shortly after the espresso stand on the corner opens, brush my teeth, crash into bed, oh, soft, soft bed with your peach-colored sheets. Sleep till noon or one. Do it again, soon.